


Filth

by Tarlan



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-06-08
Updated: 2004-06-08
Packaged: 2017-10-19 03:56:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/196602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarlan/pseuds/Tarlan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His life had taken a downward spiral.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Filth

**Author's Note:**

> A rather dark response to the 'One Hand' challenge and a personal challenge to write something less than a page long!

Filth. Everywhere around him... on him... in him.

A Filthy hostel room with its gray sheets, grimy blanket, lumpy stained pillow, torn wallpaper... and only God knows what that stain on the threadbare carpet was. His nose wrinkled at the acrid smell of old piss and vomit wafting from the corner of the small shabby room. He gave himself a strong reminder not to walk around barefooted.

The smell of sour sweat, and the itchiness in his scalp. God, hope that's just because he hadn't been able to wash his hair in over a week. The alternative--head lice--turned his stomach. He gazed at his hand. His only hand. Dirt under the nails, dirt seemingly ingrained in the creases of his palm. He'd wanted to shower, had even stripped in the communal bathroom, hissing as the material grazed across the fresh wound, his gaze avoiding the moldy grouting and cracked tiles, nose turning up at the well-used, filthy cake of carbolic soap. Who knew what orifices it had seen. Then the water, the color of urine, dribbling from the faucet... cold... no, fucking freezing. No way! Dressing at double-speed when another _resident_ arrived. Fumbling with his clothes, unused to the strange absence of his left hand. Ignoring the leer, shoving back the filthy hand that pawed his ass with a growled threat of death if it happened again--and meaning it.

Later, he was lying on that filthy bed, fully clothed, chair pushed up against the door handle to discourage night visitors of the human kind. Jacket splayed open beneath him, tee-shirt creased and damp and smelly, clinging to his strong torso. Gradually, his thoughts drifted away to a better time, a better place, hearing soft male laughter, a well-remembered monotone, recalling strong fingers grazing his flesh. Never a lover's caress, yet every touch seared and burned into his brain in welcome. Any touch was heaven--and hell.

His hand moved slowly downwards, trailing across a nipple, unbuckling the belt, popping the button... lowering the zip. Fingers dragged up the tee-shirt to expose soft pale flesh before easing down towards mud and blood-splattered jeans. He pulled away the encrusted denim in jerky motions... right side, then left, then right again - not too far - just enough for a hand to reach, to stroke, to caress.

Filth in his head. Thoughts as dirty as his clothing. Golden eyes laughing, with pupils dilated in lust. Long fingers replacing his own, kneading the soft sacs, smoothing along the flaccid shaft until... An energy bolt sizzles through his nerve endings, his breathing quickens, blood surging through his veins... downwards... with each stroke across that sensitive place. His hardening erection, thick and warm, smooth and silky, throbbing in his grasp. Hand stroking faster. A deep, sensual moan, as imagined soft lips kiss the tip, tasting the precome, golden eyes smiling up at him, teasing him. A phantom mouth descends, engulfs. His heartbeat quickens. A soft keening cry as the hand moves faster... faster. Images of his ghost lover, sucking, caressing, teasing, taking him deeper into a hot haven.

"OhhhGod... OhhhhGodohhhGod"

Colors bursting behind closed eyelids.

"Muuullderr...."

Green eyes opening as his breathing slows. Gasps become softer. Finally his heartbeat slows. Clean, golden light fading back into the dingy gray. His fingers trail through the translucent semen splattered over belly and chest, then snag the rough sheet to wipe away the damning evidence of solitary passion.

Filth. All around him. His eyes travel the room in disgust. Yesterday they had brought him here, left him here. The Doctor had fitted a prosthetic, cheap plastic replacement for warm, solid flesh. Filled him with drugs that dulled his pain of loss physically... but not mentally. Tears prickling his eyes were brusquely wiped away before they could fall.

His face hardened. His arm was gone but he was alive, his mind was intact, his memories whole. There were many who would be willing to buy what he knew. He had names, places. It was time to seek them out, time to make new acquaintances, and renew the old. Tomorrow he would leave this place, go to St Petersburg. Seek out Vassily Peskow and a new life.

Filth on him. He would change. Strip off the dank clothing that stuck to his body, steal more if necessary. Soak away the dirt and grime. Scrub at his skin and hair, cleanse himself of the Gulag and the forest.

Filth in him. He would strip away the self-loathing, the self-pity. Barricade his heart before they could tear even more from his soul.

His eyes close and visions dance before him. Hazel eyes remembered, soft brown hair cascading over a tall forehead, lips that cried _kiss me_ ' and a body, lean and tall and muscular and.... The barricade shook, crumbled but he steeled his heart... then relented. Maybe some filth was worth keeping, some dreams worth dreaming.

He smiled softly. Today he was so far down, but in sudden determination... not yet out.

END


End file.
